


Silvered

by SnowStormSkies



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Community: glam_100, Gen, Inspired by Music, Moonlight, Musicians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowStormSkies/pseuds/SnowStormSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for glam_100 on livejournal. </p><p>Tommy Joe looks over the silvery beach, the guitar in his hands saying more than his words ever could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silvered

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://casey270.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://casey270.livejournal.com/)**casey270** Thank you very much for inspiring this,and for keeping prodding me to write it. And betaing it. *snuggles you*

**Title:** Silvered  
 **Pairing/Characters:** Tommy/Unknown.  
 **Rating (Word Count):** PG-13, (1400 words)  
 **Warning(s):** Not really.  
 **Author's notes:** [](http://casey270.livejournal.com/profile)[**casey270**](http://casey270.livejournal.com/) Thank you very much for inspiring this,and for keeping prodding me to write it. And betaing it. *snuggles you*

And why do I feel like this is part of TJRBB but not?

**_ Silvered _ **

  


Tommy is tired. So tired. Everybody says tour goes so quickly but it’s like a marathon. The first shows are easy, and then you have to dig in, dig deep for strength to keep your sanity and to keep on playing night after night, with new people all around you, and then do it all over again the next day. Towards the end, it’s okay again; you’re desperate to hold onto those feelings, but right now, you’re in deep, and it hurts.  
  
It’s an exercise in holding your tongue, holding yourself together, holding it back.  
  
Holding steady against it all.  
  
\--  
  
They’re in Bali, but it’s not for a vacation. It’s just another stop on Adam’s long list of tour dates, another concert venue, another opportunity to promote and to work.  
  
Adam is amazing, but they’re tired.  
  
And tour is long.  
  
They check into the hotel in the early afternoon. The sun outside is oppressive, heavy against their skin, and Tommy is so grateful for air conditioning.  
  
So grateful.  
  
His room is small. A double bed that he’ll sleep in alone, a vanity and chair, a mirror that he doesn’t want to look in, a bathroom behind a curtain.  
  
Not home.  
  
\--  
  
Dinner is nice. Adam joins them for once, and they eat on the beach, going from plate to plate of local food, good food, brilliant, vibrant food cooked in the flames and bright fire right in front of them. Adam holds court in the red and orange light of the beginning of a sunset.  
  
The sea is alight, and the boats making their way back to shore should be burning, but they’re not.  
  
Tommy tastes everything through a veil of tiredness and heat, lying on a blanket on the sand.  
  
Ashley hand feeds him sweet cake **,** and her eyes are dark.  
  
\--  
  
It’s not late when they leave the beach, but it feels like it.  
  
The sky is lilac on the horizon but deep bruise blue and purple as stars bleed into existence, and Tommy sits on his balcony to watch.  
  
On the beach below the fire pit smoulders, ringed by stones and left to die quietly by morning. The fire is a splash of richness on the pale expanse of sand.  
  
The sea washes away the sand on the shore, leaving behind nothing but foam, and the sound is peaceful.  
  
Endless.  
  
Tommy sits, and as he watches, the moon silvers everything.  
  
\--  
  
Somewhere to his right, Tommy hears a sigh.  
  
Not loud. Not enough to disturb the peace.  
  
Tommy’s not sure where it came from – above, straight across, near or far since sound travels so far in the still air here, but he’s not interested in knowing. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look to see who it is, whether it’s someone from his band or not, stranger or friend.  
  
It’s enough to know they’re there, that Tommy is not alone.  
  
There’s the soft sound of a chair moving, the creak as someone settles into it, another sigh as all falls still again.  
  
  
\--  
  
They sit like that for a while, just the two of them; Tommy and his stranger, under the moonlight. A palm tree below whispers as the breeze toys with it’s leaves, the waves on the beach providing a regular heartbeat in the background, the fire in its pit occasionally crackles.  
  
A soft breeze runs its fingers through Tommy’s hair, a caress with a cool touch.  
  
He shivers.  
  
There’s another sigh, but it sounds different somehow.  
  
Two small clicks, a rattle, the sound of a case opening.  
  
A knock, a quiet sigh.  
  
A soft guitar note blooms into the silvery air.  
  
\--  
  
The song is simple.  
  
A refrain, few embellishments, with a regular rhythm that pervades it. Tommy understands the reduced nature of it. But the music is not played by someone unskilled; the trained musician in Tommy – the one that’s been taught and wrestled, and made to understand written music for someone who is not him – recognises it as the work of someone who understands his instrument, who knows what it is he wants to say through his music, and does so.  
  
The emotion behind it bleeds through the simplicity.  
  
Tommy sits, he listens, and he _understands._  
  
He wants to respond.  
  
\--  
  
His own guitar is already out, sitting on the vanity chair. It’s his acoustic – the electric is somewhere else ready for tomorrow’s concert, but this one – this one is his.  
  
The wood glints in the moonlight as he carries out onto the balcony.  
  
He’s not nervous.  
  
He should be. He’s going to play for someone he doesn’t know, someone he’s never even see the face of. It’s strange and new, and he should be scared.  
  
But he’s not.  
  
He sits down. His hands know where to go, how to hold the neck, how to line up with the strings.  
  
\--  
  
The first note spills out of his guitar onto the silvery wooden floor. It’s followed by another, and another, and another, until it’s not just notes but a song.  
  
He lets his fingers guide him.  
  
It’s Tommy’s story to tell now, and he doesn’t falter.  
  
His bare feet brace against the wooden rail, and he pushes back just a little, swinging his chair on two legs as his fingers hold onto his guitar.  
  
The music pools and swirls around him, and the breeze ducks and dives within it, carrying it to his listener.  
  
The music slows.  
  
His part is done.  
  
\--  
  
His stranger responds.  
  
And it’s beautiful.  
  
They go back and forth, silence breaking in between the pieces to create a conversation of music, the ebb and flow of sound taking the place of words and syntax, rhythm and twanging strings in place of breath and tongue and teeth.  
  
It’s exactly what Tommy needs right now.  
  
Just slow, soft music.  
  
That doesn’t ask questions.  
  
And doesn’t want judgement.  
  
That is just played for its own sake, and it’s not perfect but it _is_ whole in its own right.  
  
It means something.  
  
  
It resonates inside of Tommy, reaching deep for something more.  
  
\--  
  
He’s not good with words, he’s not good with his voice. That’s Adam’s domain, his place in life.  
  
But Tommy knows music. He understands it better than English, and the way the stranger is playing tells him more than a hundred hours of talking.  
  
Steady hands, because the notes rarely falter. One foot softly tapping the beat; he can hear it underneath the soft music coming out of the guitar.. A cough, a sigh, and the clicking of the plectrum on the body of the guitar before his stranger responds, telling him the person is considering, deliberately choosing.  
  
Tommy listens.  
  
\--  
  
The night sky changes, the stars fading as the moon disappears, sky above him turning steadily different shades of blue, fading from the navy to the soft, sweet coral.  
  
It’s late. Or early. Very early morning. The birds aren’t awake yet, but they will be soon.  
  
The fire in the pit on the beach is a faint orange smudge now, barely alive. It’ll die before the sun finishes rising.  
  
He still doesn’t turn around to look at his stranger. It’s so tempting but he doesn’t want to know. The conversation they had this morning might mean less if they…  
  
\--  
  
If they are what? Different? Less? More?  
  
Tommy doesn’t know.  
  
He finishes his piece, his turn in this conversation, but the song that comes from his guitar – part of the not-words they’ve been sharing all night – feels final.  
  
No more, he realises. They’ve said all they need to say – as much as they can, in this space, using music to communicate – and that’s it.  
  
Silence.  
  
They don’t speak still, and the sound of waves rushes to fill the emptiness that’s left.  
  
Tommy turns his plectrum over in his fingers, the dark bit of plastic catching the occasional glint of half-light.  
  
\--  
  
Another sigh, his stranger’s. A cough, a chair creaks as the stranger gets up. Soft footsteps pad away, and the sound of a door sliding open drifts to Tommy’s ears.  
  
It could go either way. If the stranger said something – if they wanted to – would it make or break the moment?  
  
Another sigh.  
  
Silence.  
  
The door shuts. No words are exchanged. As he thought it was.  
  
But the experience, the feelings that the music evoked in him stays. His hands tremble as he puts the guitar on the table, folds his fingers together, and breathes in the cool, morning air.


End file.
